“As for the setting of feet upon collective necks, my lord Pennendos, I had much liefer have the foot of a generous and forgiving stranger upon mine than that of a grasping, greedy, cruel, arrogant poseur of a near relative. Though I have as yet to have the honor of meeting him, this High Lord Milos seems to me an overlord that I and you and the rest of us can easily live with and under, and I feel him and his overlord-ship to be a blessing of God upon us and our so long afflicted land.”
Milo Morai sat on a sandstone bench beside the aged, arthritic Father Mithos, eeohyimehnos of the Monastery of Saint Anthony of the Stones. The buildings behind them still showed clear evidences of the ruin that had been unremittingly visited upon them during the long years of civil warring, raids and general chaos. But even in its present state, stripped of most of its ancient treasures, portions of roofs here and there still undergoing repairs, the purity of line of laid stones and columns bore out as ever the skill and real love that had originally gone into the erection of the complex.
Father Mithos was one of the only three of the original brothers to survive. He was maimed and hideously scarred by steel, lash, rope and searing heat— tortures wrought upon his flesh by cruel men seeking the hiding places of the last few treasures of the order; vain tortures, as it turned out, for Father Mithos was possessed of great faith, a tempered will and the warrior heritage of his noble forebears.
More accustomed to the vain, proud, supercilious and often downright criminal churchmen of his northerly realm of Kehnooryos Ehlahs, Milo had at first found this erudite, deeply religious, but withal both gentle and humble man truly refreshing. As the days had gone on, with the brawny brothers working the long days through at ferrying the men and horses some bare handful at a time across the treacherous stretch of river in their tiny boats, the High Lord had found himself to be beginning to not only respect Father Mithos but to really like him, as well.
After a sip of the cider, Milo remarked, “Father Mithos, it is a bit surprising to me that the main trade road has not been put into better order and that the bridge, here, has not been rebuilt. I must remember to speak of both projects in Mehseepolis.”
Both of the old man’s thumbs were now but withered, bumpy, immovable claws, so he needs must use his two palms to raise and then lower his cider-cup, and he did this slowly, painfully, in deference to calcifications in joints sprung on rack and strappado. With a skill born of long, patient practice, he set down the cup and smiled, his scarred lips writhing jerkily aside to show his few remaining teeth.
“Do not trouble yourself of the thoheeksee, my son. They mostly are good, righteous, godly men, and they have done more than many ever expected they could or would to set this land to right within the space of bare years rather than decades.
“As regards the trade road, I can understand why it has not been improved more than it has. For one thing, there are few reasons to move the army in this direction, but many to move it to north and south and west, so understandably, those roads are foremost in the minds and plans of the Council and repair crews. Also, the traders have taken to using another track and a ford well up north of here, though I feel certain that were the bridge again sound and whole and usable, they would return to the old road.
“The bridge was the property of this house, you know, my son. We maintained it and, when necessary, repaired it, and we waxed wealthy on the tolls for use of it. But as our wealth grew, so too did our overweening pride. Truly it is averred that pride goeth before a fall, never doubt the words, Milo. We waxed proud and rich and slothful and the Lord God brought us down, far, far down, visited upon us deaths and sufferings and hunger and loss.
“Five years ago, brigands nested behind those walls and in the toll-castle down by the river, there. There were but three of us brothers left alive and we were all in sad condition, tramping the roads and begging, starving in rags. But then Thoheeks Grahvos—may God bless and keep him, ever—sent his army against the brigands and drove them all forth, killing some in battle, hanging others and enslaving the remainder. He freed their captives, then sought out Brother Miklos, Brother Thiodohros and me. He had us restored in body and brought here to re-occupy our lands and begin to restore our order and buildings to the use of the Lord God.
“Now, God be praised, there are three-and-twenty of us here, to sing of the glories of God and to do His holy work. Our vines and fruit trees have been replanted and they will, in God’s own time, produce the bounty of yore. We have harvested two crops of grain and soon will reap yet another. Early on, we gathered in poor, homeless, near-wild goats and sheep and cattle, two asses, two oxen and an injured horse which last we slowly nursed back to health, only to find that he is a war-trained horse and most ill suited to the needs of a band of peaceful brothers of God. According to God’s will, the beasts have multiplied and continue to do so. The pastures have been refenced, the folds and sheds rebuilt, and hayfields sown. God willing, we someday may again own swine to batten upon the mast of our forest. And also, someday, when He has fully forgiven us of our pride and sloth and other impieties, God will show us the way, will allow us leave to rebuild that bridge.
“Already has the Lord shone His face most brightly upon us here, my son, far and away more brightly than our many sins deserved for us. Therefore, do not trouble the thoheeksee in Mehseepolis on our account, for we all are fed, clothed, housed and content with the Lord God’s blessed bounty.”
As the sun began to set behind the monastery forest, the old abbot arose from his seat and, tenderly assisted by a tall, brawny brother who had stood behind him in meek silence for the hours he and Milo had sat and sipped and conversed, made his painful, hobbling way back to the main building. But Milo was not halfway back to camp when, with a pounding of bare feet, the tall brother caught up to him, perspiring lightly but breathing normally despite his run, for which he had rolled up his sleeves almost to the shoulder and tucked the hem of his robe into his waist-rope to display heavily muscled limbs bearing the puckered scars of a man who had worn armor and swung steel for many a year. Walking toward Milo, smiling, the monk strode with a pantherish grace, and Milo thought that the man had probably been a deadly swordsman in his salad days, no doubt still could be had he not traded his armor for a robe of unbleached wool and his sword for his faith.
He dredged the monk’s name out of his memory. “Yes, Brother Kahnstantinos? You would have words with me?”
The monk nodded brusquely, there on the trail along which other brothers were passing on their way up from the day’s atrocious labors on the river, too dumb with fatigue to do more than mumble to the tall monk and stumble on toward the monastery complex.
“Someplace private, and it please my lord.”
In Milo’s pavilion, the monk sipped at the wine, savored it on his tongue and complimented Milo on his selection of vintage, as well as on the workmanship of the gilded silver wine-goblet. His speech and bearing were unmistakably those of a gentleman to the manor born.
After thanking him no less elaborately, Milo asked bluntly, “Well, then, my lord monk, what have you for my ears only in privacy?”
The monk contemplated the dark depths of his wine for a long moment, then looked up with sad eyes and said, “That which I should not utter, for in so doing I will be gainsaying a man whom I respect and love above all other living creatures I ever have known in all of a bloody, violent, misspent life; but still I must say it, my lord, though it damn me.
“My lord, things are not nearly so good here as Father Mithos would like to believe. Indeed, he does not even know of the worst of our afflictions … I don’t think … for those of us who do know shield him from them. We know that he will not live much longer, you see, and we wish him to die in peace and in as near to comfort as this rude, poor place can afford him. For if any man born has ever earned the right to a peaceful, painless demise, it is him. They crucified him, you know, my lord.